


Your Turn

by minyoungis



Series: GOT7 [3]
Category: GOT7, K-pop
Genre: Alcohol, Bathtubs, But Not Much, Caretaking, Comfort, Cute, Emotional Constipation, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Literal Sleeping Together, Nudity, Sleep, Suggestive, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27157733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minyoungis/pseuds/minyoungis
Summary: It’s tradition. Every Friday evening, he comes over to your apartment with another egregiously expensive bottle of alcohol and the two of you soak in the bathtub, venting about your respective weeks, until you’re all ranted out and your appendages become pruney.
Relationships: Jackson Wang/Reader
Series: GOT7 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981504
Kudos: 31





	Your Turn

The water sloshes against the side of the tub and threatens to spill out onto the tiled bathroom floor as you not-so-gracefully shift forward to top up Jackson’s glass from the nearly empty bottle while balancing your own.

He shoots you a quick “ _Thanks,_ ” and takes a sip of the champagne before moving to continue his story.

It’s tradition. Every Friday evening, he comes over to your apartment with another egregiously expensive bottle of alcohol and the two of you soak in the bathtub, venting about your respective weeks, until you’re all ranted out and your appendages become pruney.

His voice is hitting that tired, deep rasp that he uses sometimes when he sings and you let yourself sink into the sound, as the yellow lights and still-warm water, not to mention the bubbly in your glass and present company, make all your senses comfortably numb.

You patiently listen to him talk, offering miscellaneous _hmm_ ’s and _haw_ ’s at appropriate points as he tells you about the latest tricky choreography and the new Team Wang project and how hectic everything’s been lately. But you can see the excitement in the sparkle of his eyes, feel his hand squeezing yours with the subtle pressure of his passions and muted enthusiasm.

He lives for it, for the music, the stage, the members.

He finishes with a loud exhale, shoulders visibly relaxing against the back of the tub as he slips lower into the water, letting it cover his clavicle and come up right to his chin, until only his slightly rosy face is sticking out.

You watch his body go underwater with a slight tinge of regret. You were enjoying the view. But still, in the low lighting, with the champagne flute in his hand and the stark white porcelain behind him in contrast to his freshly dyed, dark brown hair, he looks more ethereal than any photographer can capture. Even without your glasses, you can make out how he veritably shines. You might be a little biased though.

He gives you a small smile, not his usual, picture perfect, ear-splitting grin, but a more subdued one, reserved for private moments like these, away from the bright lights and flashing cameras.

Pulling at your interlaced fingers towards him, he places a gentle kiss against your hand. With a soft squeeze, he says, “Your turn,” grinning knowingly at the faint blush starting at your neck and moving alarmingly fast up to your ears, heating your face.

He has a way of pinning a person to their seat with his eyes, all his attention focused on them, like nothing else exists. You get flustered every time you’re at the receiving end of that gaze, always feeling so exposed at the attentiveness, still unused to the concept of another person being this single-pointedly interested in you and the things you say. And by god, if he doesn’t enjoy putting you on edge.

You clear your throat and bring your glass up to your lips, trying to conceal your flushed face, while giving his hand a slightly tighter squeeze than necessary in mild reprimanding.

Shaking your head a bit to clear it, you ready yourself for the second wave of tiredness that’s about to hit you as you begin to recount the past week. It was a tough one. You word vomit about your multiple assignments and difficult professors, finally being able to let it all out.

It’s cathartic almost, this ritual. No judgement, no reservation and most definitely, no advice, not at this moment. It’s just a good, old fashioned bitching and moaning session that leaves you slumped and tired at the end, but so much lighter than before.

You wind down with one last gripe about your non-compliant project partner and feel your body sag against the tub.

You make eye contact with him, too exhausted to feel anything else at this point really, even with his heart-shatteringly kind eyes and simple, patient smile trained firmly on your face.

The water’s beginning to become uncomfortably cold and you can feel your fingertips shrivelling up, but neither of those facts seems to deter Jackson from plucking your now empty glass from your fingers, placing it on the edge of the bathtub and insistently tugging at your connected hands until you have no choice but to move forward so you’re loosely straddling him.

The position gives you the advantage of height, poised as you are on his legs and your hands automatically move to wrap around his neck to maintain your balance.

His eyes don’t leave yours, and you can see your tiredness reflected in them. He leans up, lips comically pursed, a nonverbal request for affection and as naturally as breathing, you bend down and slot your lips against his.

There’s no ulterior motive to the kiss, nowhere for it to go. Rather, it’s a double ended rueful apology. You’re both saying, “ _I’m sorry you had to go through that,_ ” and, “ _I hope you feel better after talking,_ ” and a foolishly optimistic, “ _I hope next week is good._ ” It’s a reassurance that you need and crave almost, that even after seeing you at your worst, when you’re tired and bitter and whining like a spoilt brat, he still wants to be around you, still wants you.

In the midst of your Jackson or champagne fuelled haze, you’re not sure which, you feel your foot knock into the drain plug, like the universe is reminding you of your raisin toes and the water that’s getting too uncomfortable for even solid, comforting kisses to assuage and you reluctantly pull away.

He lets you go with one last peck and you both wordlessly get out of the tub after he pulls the plug, now more than ready for a good night’s sleep, limbs entangled, hearts in tandem.

Serious talk will come in the morning, advice and solutions and help from both sides. But for now, it’s the little things.

Toothpaste messily dribbling out the side of your mouth and his comical cross eyes every time your gazes meet in the mirror in front of you.

**Author's Note:**

> i'd love to hear feedback, spread the love!  
> find me on tumblr (where everything is cross posted) at @min-youngis :D


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